


Your Solitude and Your Pride

by MissMoustachio (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Bonding, Gen, M/M, Murder, Philosophy, Prison AU, Reading, Sacrifice, Sexual Tension, Violence, art thief grantaire, murderer Combeferre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7476003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MissMoustachio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was deep into his fiery heart<br/>He took the dust of Joan of Arc,<br/>And then she clearly understood<br/>If he was fire, oh then she must be wood.<br/>I saw her wince, I saw her cry,<br/>I saw the glory in her eye.<br/>Myself I long for love and light,<br/>But must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?</p>
<p>(Joan of Arc, Leonard Cohen)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Solitude and Your Pride

It's only when they're taking his fingerprints that Combeferre realises just how truly fucked he is.

 

_A minimum of six years for involuntary manslaughter with the potential for parole._

He can still hear the deep intone of the judge as he passed his sentence, feel the bang of the gavel vibrate through his bones. He sees the looks of horror on Enjolras and Courfeyrac's faces, the complete mortification on Bahorel's because the 'best lawyer in the business' wasn't able to save him; oh, but he wasn't just a lawyer, he was his friend, they were all his friends, and now he was here, standing in a prison having his clothes and dignity stripped away, completely alone.

He'd managed to get a third of his initial sentence shaved because he'd pleaded guilty immediately. He _was_ guilty, he knew that. He'd pointed the gun, he'd pulled the trigger. Sure, it's possible to argue that he wasn't himself when he shot the policeman but there was still a man short on Earth now because of his actions. He'd tried to save him, used all of his medical expertise to try and cover the wound, staunch the flow, but his aim had always been terrible and he'd hit an artery. The man bled out in minutes and Émile Combeferre, newly qualified doctor and renowned pacifist, was a murderer.

 

He's shoved through the doors now that he's in his uniform and the few items he'd had on him upon arrival are gone. The guards on duty are rough with him, perhaps more so than they are with the other arrivals.

_I've killed one of their own_ , he thinks. _They bleed blue, all of them_. That's a lie, of course. He can still see the scarlet red.

Shuffling down the corridors of the men's jail of Fleury-Mérogis Prison, Combeferre vaguely remembers reading that France has the worst prison conditions in Western Europe. He feels inclined to agree.

A never-ending string of bloodshot eyes peer out at him, yellowed teeth revealed through snarls, threats shouted in his direction. The guards seem impervious and continue to frog-march him along, until finally they stop outside a cell.

“You're rooming with our very own Grand R,” the guard informs him. He smiles nastily and looks Combeferre over; although the guard is shorter than him, the ferocity of his gaze makes him recoil in fear. “I hear he's not the most gentle.”

With that, he opens the door and shoves him in.

 

Combeferre staggers, struggling to keep his balance as he lurches into the room. The door shuts immediately behind him and he hears a snort from in front of him. He looks up and around the room, the size of a handkerchief. A bunk-bed, a toilet and... _hundreds of books_. Combeferre blinks and for a second he thinks they've accidentally escorted him to the library when a voice chimes in from under a blanket on the bottom bunk.

“I find that the officers can be quite accommodating when you make an effort to get to know them. Of course,” the covered figure continues, a smile on their voice, “they already have quite the vendetta against you.”

“Grand R?” Combeferre swallows and the blanket gets thrown off. The shadows cast by the poor light obscure his room-mate's face, as the man swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stretches.

“Just Grantaire, please. No one calls anyone by their first name here, so I'd get used to it now Combeferre.”

“How do you know my name?”

Grantaire snorts and finally stands up, allowing the harsh light from the naked bulb above to fall on him. He's short, stocky and covered in scars and tattoos, the story of a lifetime permanently etched on his skin. He looks up from under greasy black curls at Combeferre, his dark eyes inspecting him carefully. Combeferre can't help but notice that his nose is broken, but his teeth are outstandingly white when he offers him a sarcastic grin.

“You kidding me? You're already famous here. The guards have been baying for your blood.” He cocks his head. “You're the guy from the news, right? Involved with those student protests or something?”

“Yeah.”

“You look a little old to be a student.”

“I'd just graduated from getting my doctorate. I am – _was_ a physician.” The past tense tastes acrid on his tongue, and Combeferre forces the lump of bile that's suddenly grown in his throat down again. When he looks up, Grantaire's expression is unreadable.

“Well. There are people in here who've done much worse than kill a cop,” he says, meandering to one of the many piles of books and selecting one idly before flopping back down on his bunk. “Murderers, paedophiles, rapists... _lawyers_.”

“What did you do?”

“Me? Oh, I pulled off the biggest art heist in modern history,” Grantaire says flippantly, as if he's commenting on something trivial like the weather. “It was the murder charge that got me life though.”

“You mean, you-”

“Oh, I didn't _do_ it,” Grantaire says emphatically, shaking his head for emphasis. “No, no, I only took credit for it. You see, Combeferre, I have a terrible habit of looking out for my friends. Which could definitely be an asset to you.”

“What would you want in return?” Combeferre asks, brow puckering and arms folding over his chest. Of course the guy would be a creep.

“A story.”

Well. That was unexpected. “Pardon me?”

“Look around you,” Grantaire says with a grand sweep of his arm. “There's nothing to do here except read, but I've finished every single book in this room a minimum of twice. I'll protect you if once every morning you'll tell me a story. A different one each day.”

“I'm not much of a storyteller,” Combeferre frowns and Grantaire scoffs.

“That lady who wrote _Fifty Shades_ would tell you that that shouldn't stop you. If you'd rather not then that's fine. Just don't expect my help.”

 

Combeferre bites his lip and considers this. Finally he shrugs and holds his hand out. “Deal.”

Grantaire grins and spits on his palm before slapping his hand to Combeferre's and pumping it heartily. “Fantastic! I look forward to us getting better acquainted, Mssr. Combeferre!”

And although he's a convicted murderer standing in a squalid hole in a wall, shaking hands with a master criminal with screams echoing in the corridors outside, Combeferre can't help but smile back at him.

 

 


End file.
